


Hooking Up

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Promted by that indecent photoshoot for Interview Magazin, Prostitution, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 23:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12618512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: This was promted by a photopost by the lovelyJohnnlockedon tumblr, combining one of Ben's new pics for Interveiw Magazine with a pic of Martin Freeman in a sharp suitx. My headcanon went that Sherlock is a hooker and the dark secret of rich CEO John Watson. So this fic happened.





	Hooking Up

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this in about an hour, so please be kind. Anyway, I thought I share it over here as well.
> 
> Archive warning for slight non-con elements.

John tells his driver to drop him of at the corner. The man hesitates a moment but then pulls over. If his boss wants to exit the safety of the black limousine at this dark junction in a run-down part of the city, who's he to argue. Mr Watson is known for his temper. Better not make him cross by objecting.

John knows that he looks out of order in this part of town in his dark jacket, white shirt and tie. But it can't be helped. The meeting took longer than expected, and he'd simply had no time to change. Despite, he loves this suit. It's bespoke, Bond Street, made of soft black wool that hugs his body most favourably – or so he'd been told by his tailor before he charged him the equivalent of his driver's monthly salary for a pair of slacks and a a coat.

John is aware of the eyes that follow his movements from the shadows after his car has turned and left. He won't need it tonight. He'd call cab – later. As he walks down the derelict street lined with boarded-up shops, he knows that he's sticking out like a peacock among pigeons. Will surely drive up the price. But sod it – he can afford it.

Truth be told, John Watson, CEO of one of the most affluent hedge fonds traded at the NYSE, could afford to order an escort from one of the most prolific agencies catering to people in his position and with his tastes. He could choose from a mouthwatering menu of debauchery, offered to him on a plate. Yet he's strolling the dark streets of the Meatpacking District behind the Whitney Museum, looking for a different kind of meat than that being processed in the still numerous butchers and warehouses.

He likes it like this. He likes looking at the boys first. He likes bargaining. That's why he's so good at his job – he truly enjoys any kind of trade.

As he turns a corner, he sees the first shapes lingering in the doorways of closed-down shops and dirty railway arches – thin, pale, clad in tight dark jeans and even tighter shirts, with chunky boots and studded belts riding low on slim hips. Most are too young for his liking – he isn't one of those punters – and he prefers his acquisitions to be at least half-way sober and not drugged into oblivion or itching with cold turkey.

Eventually, John stops. Against a darkened brick wall leans the tall, thin frame of a young man, hollowing his cheeks while sucking on a cigarette, the orange glow illuminating a strange, long face that seems to have been drawn by one of those expressionist painters that hang on the walls in John's Upper Eastside apartment: all angles and shadows, huge eyes, sharp cheekbones, full lips and tussled hair. He's wearing the usual tight black trousers while his shirt is unbuttoned almost down to his navel, exposing white, hairless skin.

“You'll do.” John tells him, stepping up in front of him, taking the cigarette from between long fingers, flicking it away into a puddle on the pavement where it dies with a silent hiss.

“Do I?” The voice is surprisingly posh, with an unmistakable British accent. Public school. Nice! They are hard times right now. You can find all sorts round here.

“How much?” John asks matter-of-factly.

“Depends.” Is the lazy answer he gets.

“You are not very eager, are you?”

“Well, why would I?”

John grins. He kind of likes this brat.

“You. Me. All night. Anything I want.” He states.

“One thousand dollars.”

John whistles. “Bit full of yourself, aren't you. You know what I could get for a grand round here?”

“You are free to pursuit another line of inquiry with one of my associates. To the right, you might catch HIV or at least some pubic lice. To the left, he'll probably knife you in your sleep.”

“Don't tell me you are clean and unarmed.” John snorts.

“I am. Clean.” The man huffs in indignation.

“If your mouth is as good with other things as it is with multisyllabic words, you might be worth the the money.”

“Oh, I definitely am.”

 

They decide to go to one of the sleazy little hotels lining the dark side street. John pays $ 20 for the whole night and signs in as Mr Smith. The janitor doesn't so much as look away from the TV he's watching when handing him his key to room number 6.

It's surprisingly clean. Fresh sheets on the bed, a bottle of water on the bedside cabinet. There's even an ensuite bathroom with only two cockroaches quickly hiding in one dark corner as John switches on the neon light.

“I'll have a shower first.” His new acquaintance says before locking himself in the small bathroom while John sits down on the bed and switches the TV on, zapping though the channels.

A few minutes later a wet body emerges from the bath, clad in nothing but his now fully open black shirt. The skin beneath is glistening pink, scrubbed clean. On the lean chest shines a silver necklace, while between the man's legs an exceptionally beautiful long cock starts to stir.

He's uncircumcised, like John himself. Yet, unlike John, he's shaved. Much more hygenic. John appreciates the effort.

“How do you want me?” A deep voice purs.

“Real. Not this sluttish nonsense.”

“Real?” There's a smirk in the velvety voice. “Seriously? You know I'm just with you for the money. By the way, fife hundred in advance, please.”

John reaches for his wallet and drops the notes on the mattress. The man counts them before stuffing them in one of his boots.

“I don't want you to pretend. That's just ridiculous. We have an agreement. Now get to work. Remember, I want to know what that mouth of yours is capable of.”

The man sinks on his knees in front of John and reaches for his fly. As John grabs his wrists the man freezes.

“Don't...” he starts.

“Just tell me, how shall I call you?”

The whore looks up at him. “John.” he eventually says.

“I'm afraid that's impossible. That's my name.” John grins.

“Seriously? Well, how about Victor then?”

“Victor. I like that. Get on with it, Victor.”

The man who calls himself Victor is not only good with his mouth – he's exceptional. John is hard in no time, thrusting into the wet hole deeper and deeper while his slut opens his throat and takes it. He has to stop after a few minutes; otherwise, it would have been over way too soon – especially regarding the amount of money he'd paid.

“That... was amazing.” John pants, his thick hard cock oozing, shining with a mixture of saliva and precome.

“That's not what people usually say.” Victor tells him.

“Idiots.”

“That's usually my line.”

“You are not really successful in this line of work, are you?”

“It pays the bills. Some men like being humiliated.”

“Not me.”

“No, not you. You get off on buying people.”

John swallows. This is getting out of hand.

“Shut up and suck.” He growls as he shoves his cock back into that enticing, sassy, too eloquent mouth.

Much later, John is kneeling over that oddly beautiful face, the jaw slack from sucking cock. Victor is lying on his back and John is squatting over him, his knees on either side of those narrow shoulders. Despite a little protestation, John has tied Victor to the headboard with his own belt. He'd paid for anything he wants, and that's precisely what he'll get out of this encounter.

“Lick. Show me what your amazing tongue is capable off.” John growls as he lowers himself onto Victor's face, spreading his cheeks to offer his anus for worshipping. God, that tongue is talented! It laps and licks and pierces the tight ring of muscle until John is gasping and squirming.

Vicotr's own cock is surprisingly hard as well, leaking clear fluid onto his concave, quivering belly, pooling around the navel. John dips his finger into it before he starts to fist his own straining cock.

As he feels getting close, he gets up and moves down Victor's body until he kneels between his spread legs. Victor's face is red and sweaty, dark curls plastered to his forehead, lips wet and swollen. John's hands gladly find his suit jacket, draped over one of the bedposts, to retrieve a condom.

“Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please, fuck me, fuck my tight hole, I'm all yours, use me as you please.”

John doesn't need to be told twice.

He pushes in without mercy until buried to the hilt. Victor takes it, despite a slight show of discomfort on his face. But then, John is huge. And doesn't go slow.

He fucks Victor relentless and steady, pounding that unprepared pink hole. Yet he's sure he's not the first today to get a leg over, so that's all right.

The man below him has stayed silent so far, but suddenly, he moans, low and guttural. The sound shoots directly to John's balls.

“There? That good?”

Victor nods as his eyes roll back in his head when John aims again for his sweet spot. He doesn't dare to examine why he's concerned with the pleasure of a random whore he picked up. Yet the sounds said whore makes are glorious. John starts to grunt in response.

It doesn't take long until he can feel himself still and pulse, filling the condom to the brim. To his surprise, Victor thickens and comes as well, shooting streaks of white come all over his chest, right up to his chin.

“Jesus...” John sighs as he rolls off. Victor winces.

“Shower.” He mumbles a few moments later. John unties him before offering him the half-drained waterbottle.

In the end, they shower together before returning to the rumpled sheets. It's getting light outside, the faint hint of dawn visible on the horizon behind New York's famous skyline.

“What's your real name?” John asks suddenly.

After a moments hesitation, the sleepy pile next to him murmurs “Sherlock.”

“Seriously? Wow.”

“You like it?”

“I like it.”

“You don't think it's odd?”

“I think it's fitting.” John smiles against Sherlock's temple.

“Shall I suck you again? The night isn't over yet.”

“Not now. I think I just like to lie here for a bit.”

“Okay. It's your choice. You paid for it.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you'll be the ruin of me?” John asks before pressing a kiss to those impossible lips to shut the undoubtably cocky remark up.

'Why is that feeling mutual?' Sherlock thinks, but for once, he keeps his mouth shut, as it is occupied with something much better than talking right now.


End file.
